Cry
by A for Anarchy
Summary: This is the ninth fic in my one-word prompt series. AU Petyr/Sansa pairing. Rated M for content dealing with prostitution. If that's not your cup of tea, you shouldn't read this.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_, it belongs to GRRM.

**Author's Note**: This is the ninth fic in my one-word prompt series. AU Petyr/Sansa pairing. It will probably have at least one more part to go with it.

**Caution**: This fic will deal with elements of the sex trade. If you have problems with prostitution, I suggest you give this fic a miss.

* * *

She'd cried the first couple of times, but had stopped once a john had slapped her. After that, she only cried when she was alone, usually in the shower, while she was cleaning off the scents of her customers.

She was surprised to find out that it was getting easier. She wasn't working her corner as much now; she had started taking in sewing from other working girls and nearby tenants. It helped, every little bit did.

There were days when she felt subhuman, nothing more than an animal reduced to the basest of existences. This was not the life that she had seen herself living, but the days in which she would have had a choice were long gone, buried with her family.

At first, after their murders, she'd tried to get normal jobs, waiting tables or cleaning toilets. But even in those places, she was too easily recognizable. People hurled the name 'Stark' at her like a curse, and their harsh voices drove her down into Flea Bottom. Here, no one cared who you were, they had their own hierarchy of existence. She was at the bottom of it, and therefore of little importance.

She was grateful for the anonymity provided by the slums; there were many redheaded whores wandering the streets (most of them were granted their color through chemist-bought bottles). She disappeared among them, only taking enough clients to make the rent. She had been cautious, alternating her nights on the corner, making sure that she didn't repeat clients more than once a month.

She'd managed to fly under the radar for months now and she was taking in enough sewing to cover most of her expenses. After balancing her checkbook that week, she'd discovered that she could drop her corner nights to once a week and still make enough to survive. The discovery was the first thing to bring a smile to her face in almost a year.

She could barely remember a time when she didn't have to worry about where her next meal was coming from, or what it felt like to have family and friends and a life free from concern.

She had been so naïve back then, so innocent, but she had lost all of that in the space of a single evening. It was pure chance that she had survived the massacre of her father, mother, and brothers (Arya had escaped, but she'd heard not a word of her since). She had gone out without telling them where she was going, the result of an argument about her choice in boyfriend.

It was a news alert that had caught her eye in a store window: "Police at Stark home, several bodies found, presumed to be the family." To the side of her house, hidden in the shadows produced the light of police cruisers and news vans, she saw the silhouette of a man so large it could only be the Mountain, a Lannister enforcer that she knew of by rumor alone. The realization had dawned on her, suddenly and painfully: Joffrey, her love, her boyfriend, had done this (with a blessing from his powerful grandfather, no doubt).

It had been one thing for him to brutalize her, she'd come to expect it, she could bear the weight of his displeasure, but this attack on her family was monstrous and without reason.

So, she did the only thing she could: she ran.

Shortly thereafter, she'd wound up in Flea Bottom, joining the ranks of the diseased and forgotten, wishing that she'd tried harder to save her family from their horrible end.

The memories would rush back to her at the worst times: while she waited at the Laundromat for her clothes, she would remember pillow fights with Arya; when she ate the rare sweet, she would remember snatching lemoncakes from Cook with Jeyne. And, worst of all, when she was standing on her corner, like she was just then, she would remember how lovingly her father treated her mother and how it was the opposite of the way Joffrey had treated her; opposite of the way that all of her clients treated her.

She had fallen from the highest echelons of society to land in the gutter, only to be used like rubbish thrown away without a second thought. She had been born Sansa Stark of the Starks of Winterfell, but she would die as Alayne Stone, Flea Bottom whore.

_But at least, _she thought to herself, _at least now I will only be a whore one night of the week, and maybe, someday in the far off future, I will never be a whore again. _

Just then, a car pulled up and shattered her silent reverie.

It was a nice vehicle, too nice for this part of the city, and she was immediately on guard. Some of the nicer corner workers had told her to be cautious about the better-looking johns and cars because sometimes the girls that went with them didn't come back. But she'd had a slow night, and winter was coming. She couldn't afford to be picky if she wanted to be able to stick to one night a week.

The passenger window rolled down and a calm, soothing tenor voice rang out from the car's dark interior, "How much?"

Surprise mixed with the chilly air had her stammering out her reply, "On-one hundred for the hour, fifty for the half, and thirty for a blowjob. Safety not optional."

"Agreed."

The passenger door unlocked and she climbed into the car, grateful to be out of the cold. The feel of leather against her skin shocked her and she could feel the tension ebbing from her muscles as she luxuriated in the sensation.

She had the feeling that her john was watching her with much more curiosity than a whore normally merited, but she was lost in the smell of leather; it reminded her of home.

"What's your name?"

She jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice, "A-Alayne."

He repeated the name, mulling it over his tongue as if it were a wine. He canted his head to the side and said it again, "Alayne?"

She could tell that he knew it was a false name, but she nodded and gave him a small smile, "Yeah, Alayne."

He gave her a smile of his own, his teeth looked sharply pointed and very white in the dim light, "Alayne, call me Petyr."


End file.
